A Cozy Country Christmas Anthology (11 page)

Out of all fourteen children in the school,
Miss Ellen definitely liked Sara best. Sara uttered a sigh of pure
contentment. This was going to be her very own Piano Christmas.

On Christmas Eve, Sara had only half a day of
school and she had as much trouble sitting still as seven-year-old
Anna did. But Miss Ellen kept them busy; each child was set to
working on a present for his or her own parents.

Sara chose to draw a picture. Studying the
portrait of her family at dinner, with Baby Karl perched on a
catalog and Papa carving a roast goose, she decided the drawing
lacked something and added a tree in the corner. A tree with
popcorn chains, gingerbread—and a glass ornament.

A shadow fell across her picture.

“What a silly present!” Jimmy, the bane of
Sara’s life since he’d dipped her braid into an inkwell and made up
a silly song about the gap between her front teeth.

“I found a rock to prop the barn door open
when Dad’s carrying in water for the cattle,” Jimmy continued.
“That’s a real present.”

“Why don’t you just use your head for a door
prop? It’s as thick as a rock!” Sara retorted in a fierce
whisper.

Jimmy scowled and Miss Ellen, who was helping
David make a pen wiper, looked up. Sara ducked her head and
pretended to draw. She didn’t want Miss Ellen to hear her
squabbling with Jimmy.

Jimmy walked up to the front of the room and
used the dipper to get a drink from the water barrel. Out of the
corner of her eye, Sara saw his hand jerk and the water spill.

In September while chopping wood, Jimmy had
severely cut his arm with an axe blade. Now his right hand twitched
and quivered like a frightened rabbit. Some of the children made
fun, getting their own back on a boy who had delighted in teasing
them. But Sara never laughed. The sight of his twitching hand
reminded her of the livid scar and wasted muscles concealed beneath
his shirt.

Just before noon, Miss Ellen had the children
clear their desks and brought out a tin of homemade fudge. Smiling,
Sara watched the little children lick chocolate off their fingers
before wiping her own hands daintily on the skirt of her brown
pinafore.

Dressed in a dark red skirt, Miss Ellen stood
in front of the room, her beautiful hair the color of chestnuts
tied back with a wide red bow.

The students quieted as she began to speak.
“I’ve had a wonderful time teaching you, children.”

Sara sat with her hands folded primly in her
lap. The others thought the fudge was their present—just wait!

“I wanted to get you something special,
something you’ll treasure for years to come.”

I’ll treasure my glass globe, Sara thought.
I’ll wrap it in cotton batting, store it in my trunk, and the
ornament will be a family heirloom, like Grandma’s mirror from
Norway. My grandchildren will ask where I got the glass ball and
I’ll tell them all about Miss Ellen and this Christmas.

Miss Ellen looked as excited as Sara felt.
“My sister bought your presents in a store in Boston. The package
arrived this week and not a single one was broken during the
trip!”

Sara stifled the urge to chew her thumbnail.
She was tired of copper pots, iron stoves, and woolen stockings—she
longed to own something exquisite and fragile.

Miss Ellen lifted the flannel wrapped packing
from a string shopping bag. The last to receive a gift, Sara held
her breath as she untied the knotted pink ribbon. What if the glass
had cracked? After all, Jimmy had been tramping around the front of
the room in his clumsy boots...

Sara sighed in relief. The glass ball was
cold to the touch, but warmed under her palms. The sphere was
perfect—more beautiful than she’d imagined—and seemed to glow in
the winter light. Inside the fragile bubble sparkled a five-pointed
star.

A crash stilled the chattering voices, and
Sara whirled in her seat. Jimmy was the focus of all eyes, his own
once delicate ornament reduced to powdered glass now sprinkled on
the rough boards and across the toe of his boot.

His hand twitched. In a voice as harsh as a
bullfrog’s croak, he asked, “Can we fix it? I was gonna give it to
Mom.”

Miss Ellen shook her head and got out the
broom. Jimmy began sweeping up the mess, his head bowed. Miss Ellen
watched him for a moment before walking over to Sara’s desk.

Sara breathed the sweet lavender scent of
Miss Ellen’s perfume. She felt sorry for Jimmy, but found it
impossible to be sad for him and happy for herself at the same
time.

Now Miss Ellen was going to say something
nice, maybe thank Sara for all her help during the year. But
instead of the expected compliment, the teacher’s words struck Sara
like a handful of icy snowflakes borne on the winter wind.

“Could you give Jimmy your ornament? I’ll
write my sister and ask her to send another one. You’re my special
helper, Sara, and I know I can ask you to be generous.”

Sara’s fingers tightened protectively around
her treasure. Miss Ellen was asking too much. Give up her gift? Her
voice was thick. “Will the new one be here by Christmas?”

She didn’t want a new one, she wanted hers.
The one with the star.

Miss Ellen’s voice was gentle. “I’m afraid my
sister won’t even get the letter for several weeks.”

Sara glanced at Jimmy. His injured hand
trembled again and she looked away. She needed this ornament to
hang on the tree tonight. She shook her head.

Miss Ellen smiled, but the light had gone out
in her eyes. Squeezing Sara’s shoulder lightly, she moved away.

Suddenly words burst out from deep within
Sara, “Jimmy can have my ornament!”

“Are you sure?” The music was back in Miss
Ellen’s voice.

Sara nodded dumbly, wincing as Miss Ellen
plucked the ornament from her hand and carried it over to Jimmy.
Miss Ellen had been cruel to ask such a sacrifice. Winking back
tears, Sara pleated the flannel square which had wrapped her
ornament; the sweet aftertaste of the fudge charred to ashes in her
mouth.

The other children giggled as they left,
clutching ornaments and the presents for their parents. Jimmy
carried his ornament, Sara’s star ornament, in his good hand. He
hadn’t even said thank you.

Disappointment sat cold and heavy as Jimmy’s
stone door prop in Sara’s stomach. She waited until the last child
had been booted and each stray mitten collected before picking up
her drawing and going to the cloak room.

Miss Ellen stood in the doorway. Sara didn’t
look up, feeling betrayed by her idol who had asked more than Sara
was willing to give.

Stepping in her dainty, high-buttoned shoes,
Miss Ellen walked over and studied Sara’s drawing, which lay on the
bench, the picture showing a table laden with food, the happy
family members, and the tree. A tree on which a crystal globe
sparkled, sending rays of beauty throughout the room.

Suddenly, Miss Ellen’s arms were around Sara,
enveloping her in the scent of lavender. “Oh, darling Sara, I had
no right to ask such a sacrifice. Can you forgive me?”

The icy rock in Sara’s stomach melted away as
she returned the hug. “I don’t even like Jimmy,” she confessed and
they giggled together.

“Thank you, Sara.” Miss Ellen’s voice was
choked up, as if she had a cold.

Sara suddenly remembered her gift to Miss
Ellen—weeks spent fancy stitching a handkerchief. In all of the
anticipation of receiving her ornament, she’d forgotten it!

“I forgot your gift at home, Miss Ellen,” she
confessed.

The teacher chucked Sara under the chin.
“You’ve given me the best gift anyone could want, chickadee. I’ll
treasure this Christmas always.”

“Even more than the year you got the piano?”
Sara asked breathlessly.

“Your generosity to Jimmy is worth more than
any instrument, Sara. A gift doesn’t have to be store bought or
tied with a satin bow to be very special.”

On the way home, Sara leaped over drifts with
the agility of a deer. She had a picture to share with her family.
She’d given Jimmy—even if he was a tease—a present and still had
the anticipation of another ornament from Boston for next year’s
tree.

The warm glow which had vanished when her
ornament was taken away had been rekindled inside Sara’s heart.
Miss Ellen had given her respect—a gift which would never tarnish
or shatter, a gift Sara could treasure forever.

This was truly a Piano Christmas.

THE END

Pocketful of
Love

The yellow duck was so lifelike that Wanda
wouldn’t have been surprised to hear him quack. Humming “Away in a
Manger”, she poked the needle through white cotton cloth. The
holidays wouldn’t be quite the same without snow, but Wanda was a
survivor: she’d learn how to make do with sunshine and the bright
blue skies of Arizona.

The phone rang. Placing the embroidery frame
on the coffee table, Wanda rose, wincing as her arthritic knee took
her weight. The pain accompanied her into the kitchen like an ever
faithful dog.

She had long ago decided that answering the
phone was the biggest adventure left in her life. The caller could
be Gwen inviting her out for lunch, an announcement that she’d won
one of those jingle contests she was always entering, a salesman,
or—

“Mother Wanda?” The voice was cultured and
confident.

Biting back a groan, she responded with the
warmest tone she could muster. “Hello, dear. How are you this
beautiful morning?” Too late, Wanda remembered her daughter-in-law
never stooped to answering personal questions, no matter how
harmless or well meant.

“I’m calling about Christmas, Mother Wanda,
and I’ve decided to be blunt.”

Someday, her daughter-in-law was going to cut
herself on that sharp tongue, Wanda mused, opening the cupboard
door and reaching up for a tea bag. “It’s an open line and an open
ear you’ve got, dear.”

“This year, David and I don’t want homemade
gifts.” A shiver like an electric current ran through Wanda’s body,
but Allyson didn’t hesitate before plunging on. “We prefer money.
We have a long list of things we’d like this year. David’s been
looking at new flat screen TVs, I need a new carry-on bag for our
upcoming trip to Hawaii—and I’d rather you bought the children’s
clothes instead of making them.”

Wanda, stunned, clutched the tea bag until it
popped and tea trickled like dark sand onto the floor.

The hurtful voice continued. “Jenny’s in
fourth grade now and what child wants to go to school in a homemade
dress? If you don’t know which designer labels are hot, just give
me the money and I’ll pick out the clothes myself. Now, I know
David doesn’t want you upset over this issue but be assured we are
in basic agreement. Mother Wanda? Are you there?”

Wanda took three shaky steps over to the sink
and turned the tap on all the way, the noisy waterfall splashing
into the kettle, giving her time to regain her composure.

When the teapot was full, she murmured,
“Thanks for sharing your thoughts, Allyson. I’ll be sure to keep
your suggestions in mind.”

“Now you’re offended.” Allyson was the one
who sounded miffed. “I’m making a legitimate request. We’d rather
have money than embroidered hankies and homemade clothes. Family
members should be honest with each other about things that
matter.”

Wondering whether Allyson’s idea of honest
would be to tell a woman on her death bed that wearing a brighter
shade of lipstick would improve her looks, Wanda hung up the
phone.

Trying to pretend that the call hadn’t
happened, she placed the kettle on the stove and turned up the blue
flame. The canisters on the shelf rattled as she walked heavily to
a straight-backed chair and sat down.

A vision of the work table in her bedroom
imposed itself over the yellow and white checked cloth. She saw the
twins’ undershirts just finished, Patrick’s embroidered with a blue
lamb and Stephanie’s a yellow duckling. A much larger shirt had the
words “Dynamite David” and a tiny bowling ball and pins
cross-stitched on the pocket. Daffodil bright, Jenny’s skirt
provided a light-hearted contrast to the drama of an evening cape
shot with glittering silver threads made for Allyson. Each stitch
represented a stab of pain—but Wanda’s stiff, aching fingers had
been impelled by love.

Wanda remained seated until the impertinent
whistle of the tea kettle penetrated her gloom. Pouring the
steaming water into a mug, she recognized the cup as the one David
had given to her years ago; the crooked letters “M O M” had been
painted by a boy who, when he concentrated hard, stuck out his
tongue and scrunched up his eyes.

Picturing her son as a child, Wanda’s heart
overflowed with memories. Precious memories. She treasured the mug
because David had struggled to shape the letters in art class, tied
the straggled bow on the handle with awkward fingers, and beamed as
he presented his gift. Such pleasure couldn’t be found in a store
or bought with a plastic card.

“Now, don’t let that silly, young woman get
you down,” Wanda rebuked herself, addressing the remark to the
glassy-eyed rooster cookie jar which served as her centerpiece this
week. “She means no harm, just hasn’t learned yet how to tell the
difference between fool’s gold and the real McCoy.”

Despite her brave words, Wanda was still
depressed when Gwen showed up on her doorstep several hours later,
unannounced as usual, and waving an envelope of pictures taken at
the Fit and Fifty talent show last week.

Her uninvited guest immediately accepted the
offer of a cup of tea and sank into a kitchen chair, a watermelon
pink skirt swirling around her shapely ankles. Wanda put the kettle
on again, placed a cup and saucer on the table, and thanked her
friend for picking up the photographs.

“No trouble, Wanda. I just finished showing a
house two blocks away to a nice, young couple. Your pictures turned
out great—I already took a peek.”